Today He Is
by Banana Rum
Summary: Alphonse gained his body back, but finds the stage is set not for a joyous welcome, but for a quiet goodbye.  A goodbye that, perhaps, Edward isn't ready to face: he can't give up just yet.


**Today he Is**  
_Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction_

**Genre: **gen, angst, Alphonse-centric Elric!kyoudai  
**Rating:** G (K)  
**Word Count: **almost 800  
**Notes:** I wrote this at the end of June, and really hated it. But I re-read it today, and I thought it was actually quite nice. (So consequently, I'm a unsure of its actual quality. :P) Constructive criticism much appreciated!

--

Alphonse knows he is bound to drift away any minute now.

He had never felt heavy before, but there was an understood _weight_ and bulk to the suit of armor. Now he was feather-light, and if not for the multitude of tubes (and the respective liquids pouring into him) he might have lifted to the sky.

He bears the tubes and wires no ill will. They may be the only things keeping him alive, and he does not want to fly any longer.

He imagines being tethered in life by these little tubes, and he wonders if Brother has ever felt the same. He wonders if Brother _is_ the same, now. But then something is shuffling (it is muted, as though coming from the next room, but Al _knows_ it is beside his bed) and a procession of color files in after it.

First, is Brother. He looks the same as always (exhausted, but in Al's recent memory that wasn't out of the ordinary). Second, Winry. Then (to his horror) what seems like half the military. They shouldn't be here. They weren't supposed to know.

Brother must have seen the expressions flashing across Al's face, because he dips his head close to Al's and whispers "I know." His breath is like summer.

"They said it's time to start weaning you off the fluids; you're even allowed to sip broth today! What a _monumental_ change." Brother chatters away aimlessly, the intimate (and, at the moment, impossible) divulging of secrets clearly on his mind. But the frustration in his voice is even clearer.

Idly, Al wonders how long it's lasted, Brother's patient waiting for improvement.

Brother directs an iron spoon towards Al's mouth, which he dutifully opens. The contents spill in, but he tastes nothing. There is a slight sensation in his throat that he assumes is swallowing. He doesn't remember it feeling quite like that.

"Tastes like shit, I know. Mom can make soup so much better than this." Al only wishes the soup tasted like ash in his mouth. But what does it matter, since this is all a dream? Brother never talks about Mother so casually. And present-tense… he only does that when Al is upset, or sick.

Today, he is neither. He is flying.

--

It feels like he is suspended in liquid. The world is strangely quiet, and the silence presses in. He can hear knockings and that is all; when Brother accidentally nudges the bed with his knee, it sends a dark thud through Al's brain, like a stone dropped into still waters.

Brother is talking again, but this time Al cannot hear.

He cannot hear, so he pretends he is not listening.

His eyes coast from blue to splash of blue, searching for some familiarity. Is it the Colonel, or Miss Hawkeye? Havoc, perhaps? But the seven figures are definitely strangers, and most of them are sporting intentionally conspicuous shotguns.

They are a criminal escort. And his _brother_ is their charge, if what he guesses is true. Maybe Brother is telling him now (though he doubts it – an analysis of the cafeteria's sad state of affairs is far more likely). As he allows his gaze to drift from the last blue-coated guard, he notices one last person – so pale and outfitted in sterile white she almost blends into the background haze.

She moves like a ghost to his brother's side and begins to speak. It's like a silent film, and the pain of not knowing gives way to the pleasures of what (he thinks) those films were like.

Brother shakes his head adamantly at the ghost-doctor; he is shaking, any Al presumes he must also be shouting. He is not having any of what she says, and it is _so much_ like him, Al feels at peace. Everything is returning to normal. Everything is going to be okay. Yet even in his intense certainty, Al knows he is putting his trust in the wrong outcome. The curtain of navy blue splits to let the ghost doctor pass, and closes before Brother can object.

Most of the time when Brother refuses to believe something, pretends not to hear the warnings, everything comes crashing down. _Then_, he hears. But he doesn't listen, and that is just the same.

Brother eats his words only after they've been dragged through the dirt and shattered like glass. Al imagines Brother's broken convictions are hard to swallow. Today he is smiling (_everything's going to be okay_), but Al tastes sorrow on his lips when Brother kisses him goodnight (_goodbye_).

Today he is deaf. Tomorrow he will be blind.

_fin_


End file.
